It's foggy this morning, Carl Sandberg. The little cat footed tendrils of fog started about midnight and this morning we're fairly well socked in.

All the sounds are different. Indoors, our voices have a faintly echo-y sound, as do our footsteps. The heater runs a comfortable constant grumble, pushing against the cold of the outdoors, only moderately successful but determined.

Outdoors, our voices seem to disappear, eaten up by the fog. I live across from a school and the morning bell chimes out, ghostly and disconnected from anything I can see, which isn't much. Not even the fence that separates the yard from the sidewalk is visible.

The little white dog we're boarding runs out the front door and disappears into the fuzzy white of the front yard. Wouldn't you know it--the one time she isn't barking--and we run around blindly, looking for her. Worried, we return to the front stoop, to find her sitting there, looking smug. Dogs!

The little cat feet of the actual cat? She's under the bed, sulking, and refusing to have anything to do with another quadruped nearly the same size as she. "How could you?" her attitude says. I try to tell her that it's only temporary, but she turns her back to me. Cats!

I think I'll go find a person to talk to.